


It's Still You

by crow_feathers



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Agender Frisk (Undertale), Alcohol, Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, On Hiatus, Other, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Transphobia, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-07-29 08:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16260404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crow_feathers/pseuds/crow_feathers
Summary: Humans are hard to talk to. Monsters, on the other hand, don't make Frisks's palms sweat quite as much.(Post pacifist ending oneshot collection)(Currently on hiatus)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Drunken spur of the moment fic. I hope you enjoy. There may be more later, no promises.

The water starts to boil, sending a piercing whine through the air. Asgore sets his hands on the table, standing up and pushing the simple wooden chair back. "Would you like some more tea, Frisk?" 

Frisk nods their head yes. "Please," they add a little too late to sound natural. They unwrap their hands from the now cold mug, wishing they had said no instead. More tea meant more conversation. It was a skill Frisk was still adapting to, still learning to be comfortable with. Of course, monsters were easy to talk to. Asgore especially so. Not like most of the humans they'd grown up with. 

"Frisk? Would you like some sugar?" Asgore's offering Frisk the sugar shaker, snapping the human out of their thoughts. Frisk hadn't realized he'd already poured the tea. They still zone out very easily. 

"Um. No, thanks." Frisk still had a hard time saying yes to anything that might vaguely resemble a treat. The guilt had apparently made a home in Frisk's heart for good. Suddenly, it felt as if someone had grabbed onto their heart, squeezing it till it ached. Tears were forming in Frisks's eyes, for no apparent reason. 

Asgore stops mid-sip, frowning and setting his teacup down a little too hard. The tea sloshes violently to one side, threatening to spill. "Frisk? Are you alright?" His voice oozes with concern, making Frisk feel even more stupid and guilty. 

Frisk nods, sniffing and using a sleeve to blot at the tears. "Sorry," they say. "I'm. I'm still not used to it."

Asgore's frown deepens. "Not used to what?"

Frisk fights back a sob, looking down at the pine table as if it were the most important thing in the universe. "People being nice to me." There's a pause, and Frisk fights to get the words out. "Before - before I fell down mount Ebott, my family... my human family wasn't very nice to me. They told me I was stupid, and a waste of space, and a 'fucked up weirdo' and..." They trail off, tears overcoming the ability to speak. They don't try to stop the sobs now. It's so stupid, and Frisk knows it's stupid, but they can't stop.

Asgore doesn't say anything. Instead, he reaches out and places a giant paw over the human's hands, dwarfing them easily. He's probably trying to make eye contact, but Frisk's head stays downcast, bangs brushing against their nose. "You seem normal enough to me. I don't see anything 'freakish' about you."

"That's not true," they say quietly. "Humans... humans aren't supposed to... humans aren't supposed to be like me. They. They aren't supposed to not want to be a boy or a girl. It's not normal. They were right, I am a weirdo, for a human."

The tea has probably grown cold now. There's another pang of guilt for wasting Asgore's tea. 

Asgore's hands are still over Frisks's, hot and fuzzy and heavy. The weight of them is reassuring, but even without looking up Frisk can tell his eyes are sad.

"Frisk, there's nothing wrong with- there's nothing wrong with being something different. In fact, there are a lot of monsters who are just like you." His words are measured, slow, but still steady. Frisk wriggles their hands out from under his. They shouldn't be allowed comfort. They're too messed up.

"Do monsters do this?" Frisk is still looking at the table, but rests their left elbow on the table, right hand pulling the sleeve down. They haven't rolled that sleeve up in a long, long time. They're trembling now, just slightly - they haven't told anyone after the first time. A hard slap across the face had been their reward for bringing it up.

There's a long, horrible pause, and it leaves Frisk bracing themselves for another slap, even though they know Asgore would never hurt them. They haven't been hit in a long time, but it still feels like it's a only matter of time before it happens again. But instead there's just a sigh. A low, defeated sigh from across the table.

"I know lengthy conversations are difficult for you," there's another pause, furry hands brushing against their exposed arm, and Frisk cringes down again, just in case, "but if you want to talk about it, I'm always willing to listen." 

It takes a moment for Frisk to realize the goat had only been rolling their sleeve back down. There's tears forming, but for a different reason now. 

They nod. "I... I think I'd like that."


	2. Chapter 2

Frisk and Asgore’s chats over tea are slowly becoming a regular activity. Mom still refuses to talk to him, but she doesn't forbid Frisk from biking to his little cottage almost every week. It’s a bit of a long ride, but it feels good. The sunshine makes the exercise more than tolerable. And of course, Asgore’s tea and quiet, understanding company doesn’t hurt.

Frisk fiddles with the handle of the dainty little teacup, running their thumb up and down the delicate thing, struggling to say something. They’re still struggling to make conversation as casually and effortlessly as others, but Asgore is patient, not minding the silence. 

“Frisk, if it’s alright for me to ask,” there’s a small pause, and for once it’s Asgore’s voice sounding unsure, “why did you do that to your arm? It looks like it would have been a bit painful. I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.” 

It was eight days ago that Frisk had confessed to hurting themselves to Asgore. Only eight days ago, and they were still loathe to have it mentioned again. Their grasp on the handle gets a little too tight, and they let go of the teacup entirely for fear of breaking it. They decide to clasp their hands together tightly instead, as if in prayer.

They realize they haven't been to church in a long time. Definitely longer than eight days. Did monsters even have church? They’d have to ask about that later.

“It’s...it’s hard to explain. If. If you do it right, it doesn't hurt. It feels kind of,” the human pauses, unsure if they should say it. “It feels good. I know it sounds weird, but it feels good. It makes me feel less nervous, like everything will be alright later. And,” they pause again, deciding to take a long sip of tea so they can gather their thoughts. As always, Asgore waits silently and patiently.

“it also makes me feel like I’m actually alive. Sometimes I feel. Sometimes I feel fake, like I’m not really alive. Seeing the blood come out lets me know that I’m really a person.” It’s a fucked up thing to say, but it’s the truth. They’re still not used to not being punished for telling the truth. 

Frisk looks up to sneak a peek of Asgore, curious. Is he angry? Disappointed? Disturbed? He looks sad, more anything else. He’s trying to hide his frown, but it’s still painfully visible. It makes Frisk wish they hadn’t said anything.

“Sorry,” they say, feeling small and pathetic. They shouldn’t have said anything about it. The only people that really understood were the strangers on the internet. Faceless strangers they’d never meet. People physically incapable of reaching through the computer screen to backhand them. Again, they feel tears welling up. 

Again, giant furry hands overlap Frisk’s. 

And again, it finally feels for once that Frisk might actually end up okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, if you're up for it, hit me with some concrit. I feel like my tenses are all fucked up, at the very least.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably try to update more consistently from now on, but for right now, please enjoy a slightly less drunkenly written piece. This one is a little longer.

It’s on one of those difficult nights, waking from a half-memory, half-nightmare, tossing and turning under the covers that Frisk suddenly realizes how quickly time is passing by. How long ago had they’d started their journey up Mount Ebott? After they fell past the barrier, their entire life had changed quickly and irreversibly. There’d been so many new places to see, new friends to make, and so little time to properly process exactly what was happening. And now, they’re back above ground, settling in with their new mother in a tiny cottage on the outskirts of a tiny town, and time is finally starting to slow down to a normal pace again. 

They stare up at the ceiling, forcing deep breaths and willing their racing heart to slow. The room has been decorated with hundreds of little cheap glow in the dark stars. They glow softly, just bright enough to make the room feel cozy without being too bright. They’re perfect for giving Frisk something to focus on after waking up from yet another nightmare. It’s soothing to lie in bed and count each and every tiny shining night-light, smiling at the memory of pasting them to the ceiling together with their new family. The nightmares are coming less often lately, but they’re still a problem. If Frisk was younger, they might be tempted to go to Mom’s room and ask to sleep in her bed. But Frisk is twelve, and that’s way too old to bother her with something as silly as a bad dream.

Actually, now that they stop to think about it, their family, all they can picture is Toriel - Mom - and other monsters. It hasn’t been very long, but already their human family feels distant, the memories as faded as a nightmare the morning after. It suits them just fine, really. Living with them had often felt like living in a bad dream, a life they threw themselves into a mountain pit to escape.

Frisk frowns, realizing they’ve counted the same star three times now. They sit up and turn around, adjusting their pillow in an attempt to make it more comfortable. Now that everyone from the underground has mostly settled in, less busy with the moving chores, Frisk has time to think, their mind busy bugging them with memories to let them sleep. They settle back into the bed anyway.

Frisk can vividly picture the look of shock and despair on Toriel’s face on that first day they had arrived at the ruins, when she had raised her paw to stroke the child’s cheek and they flinched back, braced for violence. For a second, she looked like she was about to cry. At the time, the human had been baffled. Irritated, even. Why did this woman have the nerve to look surprised and upset? She had been the one reaching her hand out to their face so quickly. Of course they expected her to hit them. That had been the usual result of a hand coming towards their face. What kind of game was she playing, pretending not to know that?

Now, though, sprawling out on a soft bed, in a room of their very own, Toriel’s pained expression and sad eyes make a lot more sense. Apparently hitting isn’t normal. Even now, and Frisk feels guilty for thinking it, they still half expect Toriel to eventually drop the act, to scream and hit and berate Frisk for some trivial mistake. Intellectually, they know there’s no act for her to drop. Emotionally, they’re still waiting for it to all come crashing down. 

The human rolls over, throwing the covers off. Too hot. Too heavy. It’s probably summer now, or just about. They make a mental note to find a calendar sometime soon. They usually dread this time of year, sweating under their long sleeved shirts and sweaters and wishing they had had the foresight to hurt themselves somewhere more discreet than their left wrist. This year, though, things are already feeling less dire. The last group of angry slashes are healing well, already faded from a startling red to a softer pink. The urge hasn’t completely gone away in the last couple months, and Frisk doesn't think it will ever leave them. But that’s alright, they think. They don’t plan on telling very many monsters, but the few they have told have been gentle and comforting, despite the shock. They don’t understand, and they probably won’t ever, but they make an honest effort, and Frisk loves them all the more for it.

They always hid them, and hid them well, anticipating people to react poorly. On the rare occasion Frisk lapsed in diligence, unthinkingly rolling up the wrong sleeve, the reactions had been worse than they’d expected. Usually confusion and judgement led the charge of questions and accusations in a neck-and-neck race, but disgust was almost always next. Mock betrayal right after. Anger, finally. One of the worst beatings that their old mother had dished out was in response seeing what Frisk had done to their arm. 

That was probably what the nightmare was about, actually.

Finally, with a sound somewhere between a tired groan and a bitter sigh, they half heartedly crawl out of bed, giving up on sleeping any more tonight. They shuffle to the lightswitch, flick it on. The soft neon green glow from the stars vanishes, replaced by a hard, artificial white.

There’s not much in the small bedroom, but aside from the bed, there is a little pine desk, matching chair, and cheap dresser. From the dresser, Frisk retrieves their colored pencil set (a gift from Asgore) and a sheet of paper. They’re too old to color with crayons, but the pencils feel serious and grown-up enough.

They drop the supplies on the desk before seating themselves and taking a moment to center the paper. What to draw? They remove a soft pink pencil from the tin, forcing themselves not to chew on it. They briefly consider drawing the nightmare, but decide against it quickly. Best not to dwell on it. There’s a happier memory to recapture. Setting the pink pencil aside, they fish out some more colors: orange, red, yellow, green.

They’re not sure where to start, but the sunset seems like a good starting point.

 

Mom had asked, after the barrier had been broken, if they wanted to stay with her. Frisk had still been getting used to speaking so much, but this time they spoke without hesitation, the words tumbling out of their mouth easily.

“Of course I do. You’re my mom.”

“Do you not have a family to return home to?” She’d frowned as she asked. There was something knowing in her eyes, a sadness even she couldn’t mask.

“No,” Frisk had said, decisively. 

“I see. Well then!” All traces of sadness gone, she reached down to take Frisk’s hand. They didn’t flinch.

“We had better get going.”

 

Frisk ends up falling asleep at the desk before they can put the final touches on the drawing, but this time they’re smiling faintly while they sleep, undisturbed by nightmares.


	4. Chapter 4

Frisk has made a point to avoid other humans as much as possible after the return to the surface. Not that they strictly dislike other humans, but they’ve grown accustomed to the monsters’ habit of accepting their oddity without question or rudeness. Humans always ask if Frisk is a boy or a girl. It’s usually the one of the first questions, sometimes even before their name. But after their fall, none of the monsters had referred to Frisk as anything other than “the human” or their name. They’d simply accepted Frisk at face value. Apparently it was quite common in monster culture. Non-binary, they called it. Frisk had never heard that phrase before, but something had felt right when the monsters underground had kept referring to them as “they.”

“Non binary” is the first thing they type into Google after a cheap laptop is bought and set up in the dining room. Following searches, “human nb,” “human nb -monster.”

Even specifying “human,” the majority of the articles are variations on “How to Not Offend Your New Monster Co-workers and Classmates,” and “Top Ten Things to NEVER Say to a Monster! Number Five Will Surprise You!” Most of these are general articles, only mentioning gender in passing, rarely referring to non-binary humans. The references are condescending at best, insulting at worst.

Frisk taps their fingers over the desk, thinking. An article titled “Top Five Monster Celebrities” lurks at the very bottom of the search results. At a loss, they click it.

A tacky, vibrantly pink and glittery banner with an image of Mettaton heads the page, and Frisk fights the urge to slam their head against the desk. Of course. Mettaton had wasted no time in becoming a star above ground, and had been praised almost endlessly for not just his outrageous personality, but his efforts to bridge the culture gap between humans and monsters. Frisk had never taken him for the activist type, but then again, it’s not like they’ve spent much time together. There’s a slight twinge of guilt for having not spent more time with him and Alphys, but after the barrier had been shattered, there just plain hadn’t been time - for anyone.

Pushing the guilt back, they hit the back button and punch in the words “Mettaton trans” into the search engine. It might be a little off-topic, but it’s a springboard, they hope, for more information. The very first result is a clip titled “Mettaton Talks About his Gender” from a TV interview that apparently aired just a little over two weeks after the barrier had been broken. Frisk slips on the cheap headphones and presses play.

Mettaton and the human interviewer are sitting across each other, the woman leaning so close to her guest she looks like she might fall off the plush chair at any second. Between them is a small but elegant coffee table, a single mug resting on it. Mettaton is sitting up straight, legs crossed, relishing the attention of the cameras. His grin is wide it looks like it might split his face in half.

“Now, I’ve heard some rumors that sapient robots are actually impossible to build, and that you used to be a ghost monster. That sounds fascinating. Is it true?”

His expression falls for the briefest moment, but quickly recovers into a more pleasantly neutral look. “Where did you hear that?” His voice isn’t dripping with its usual enthusiasm.

The interviewer waves her hand nonchalantly. “Oh, you know, around. You know how nosey reporters are.” She laughs, but it’s tight, restrained. Seemingly catching herself, she straightens herself into a more proper position.  
Mettaton’s expression stays the same, but there’s something faraway and gloomy in his eyes now. It’s impressive how emotive he is. “Well, it is true,” he says, not quite softly, but reserved, “I suppose it was only a matter of time before more people caught on.”

“Ghosts are genderless by default,” he says, and the woman frowns with confusion, but thankfully doesn't interrupt, “but as a ghost, I never really felt that way. Actually, that might have been the wrong place to start. Obviously, ghosts are incorporeal-” the interviewer opens her mouth to talk, but Mettaton raises a finger to sush her, “-and every ghost must decide for themselves whether they wish to remain that way or find an object to permanently inhabit and become corporeal.”

The interviewer had been drinking out of her mug, but now she sets it down. “I’m sorry, you said incorporeal?”

Mettaton smiles smugly. “Yes darling, incorporeal,” he says, making a point to check the time on his phone. “We’re running a bit low on time, aren’t we?”

She gives a non-committal half-and-half sign with her hand and doesn't answer, so he takes it as a sign to continue.

“Anyway, becoming corporeal is tragically difficult. It requires a strong, passionate burst of emotion and a desire for the object to become your permanent vessel. Because choosing a vessel is such a daunting task, and becoming it is even harder, a lot of ghosts give up entirely.” He frowns for a moment, and Frisk wonders if he’s thinking of Napstablook. “But I’m getting sidetracked.”

“As I said before, ghosts are naturally genderless. Nobody really knows why, but it doesn't really matter. What does matter, is that I never felt that way. Growing up, it seemed like half of my cousins were unsure or uninterested in becoming corporeal, and the two who were sure picked - ugh - training dummies.” He shudders. “I was happy for them, but there was no way I was going to inhabit anything so drab. I was the only ghost with an interest in gender. Not having one just didn’t feel right. But simply saying ‘I am male’ never seemed quite enough for me. I didn’t like having to explain to every ghost I met that I wasn’t agender. I wanted to be corporeal, and I wanted a gender that people couldn’t ignore. But there weren’t any suitable vessels.”

Frisk is pretty sure they know where this is going.

The interviewer has leaned back into her chair at this point, apparently having realized it best not to interrupt. She nods along to Mettaton’s story, but it doesn't look like she’s grasping it.

“Honestly, I was starting to feel like I’d never be able to find the body I was looking for, and...” he waves his hand, looking faintly melancholy. “Anyway! The important thing is, eventually, I met my dear friend Doctor Alphys,” he perks up now, more animated, “and one day she surprised me with sketches for the body I’d always wanted! Masculine but fabulous-” He cuts himself off, turning to the camera and now looking dangerously solemn. The interviewer sits up, Mettaton’s sudden change in demeanor apparently piquing her interest again.

“Alphys, you really did make my dreams come true. Thank you.”

There’s another minute left on the video, but Frisk closes the window anyway. There’s an indiscernible sensation in their chest, something heavy and restricting but light and freeing at the same time. A word from the interview floats out of Frisk’s mouth, coming out as a whisper and feeling like home.

 _Agender_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you would not believe (or maybe you would) how much I struggled with this. my keyboard is giving up the ghost, so let me know if there's any typos.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for misgendering/transphobia.

It’s bright outside, sun streaming through the window of the tiny cottage and on to the equally tiny dining table when Frisk hears it. A series of short, harsh thuds assault the door of their new home. Normally, they would let Mom answer, but today she’s in the middle of something important in the kitchen, and it falls to Frisk to attend to the door. They set their colored pencil down, heave a dramatic sigh and trudge to the door.

Seeing the woman on the other side makes their blood turn to ice. There she is, short and green eyed and menacing. She’s sneering down at Frisk, like usual. They can’t move. They want to call for Mom, but their voice won’t work. Frisk and her stare at each other for a what seems like years, and then the beast pushes her way past Frisk and enters the cottage without a word. Just a sneer. She begins making herself at home, casually removing her jacket and hanging it on the peg next to the door.

“My child?” Toriel calls from the kitchen. “Who is there?”

Frisk can’t answer. They’re frozen, their heart is beating too fast, and they feel small. Faintly, they realize, they’re shaking. It’s pathetic.

Luckily, Toriel comes out to the dining room. She closes the gap between herself and Frisk quickly, laying a comforting paw on their shoulder. She frowns at the stranger.

“Oh! Hello,” she says pleasantly, though Frisk can feel how brittle her greeting is. “I am Toriel. Who are you?”

The woman’s sneer only deepens, somehow. She gives Frisk an awful, contemptful look. They shiver.

“Wow,” she says, “just wow. My name is Martha, and this is my fucking brat.”

Even without seeing her face, Frisk can tell Toriel is giving Martha a stern glare. She squeezes their shoulder a little tighter for a moment. “Sweetheart, will you finish in the kitchen for me, please?”

Frisk doesn't say anything. They just go. Of course, the house is so small there’s no privacy, but just being out of their old mother’s presence is enough to help them calm down. There’s nothing to finish cooking, so they decide to start cleaning away the mess while they listen. Their hands are still trembling.

“I don’t appreciate that kind of language in my house, ma’am. And Frisk is far from being a brat. They are a very well-behaved child.”

There’s the sound of wooden chairs scraping against the hardwood floor. Martha laughs, humorless.

“I don’t appreciate someone kidnapping my goddamned kid,” she rasps, “she’s not your daughter-” 

“I believe Frisk prefers to go by ‘they’-”

There’s a loud thump, the sound of a fist hitting the table, and Frisk flinches hard despite themself.

“Oh, bull-fucking-shit. Don’t encourage that nonsense. Listen, lady, I don’t care who the fuck you are. You kidnapped my daughter, and I’m taking her back with me today.”

There’s silence. It drags on unbearably long, and Frisk has to keep themself from hiding under the sink cupboard. Mom isn’t going to make them go back. They hope.

Toriel’s words are slow, measured. “Ma’am. I did not ‘kidnap’ Frisk. They fell into the underground, and I took care of them for a time. They are allowed to leave whenever they want. I do not believe they wish to live with you.” Her tone becomes sharp. “Now please get the hell out of my house, or I will make you leave.”

There’s another scraping of chair against floor, this time accompanied by the sound of the chair crashing down. 

“You wanna take this to fucking court? I’ll go to court, you fu-”

“No, you won’t,” Toriel says, her voice even. “It is very clear to me that you’ve abused the child, and I’m inclined to think a court would agree.”

Even without being present, Frisk can tell Toriel has summoned her fire magic. There’s another terrifying silence, and then, mercifully, the door slams shut so hard it shakes the house. 

They didn’t realize they’d been holding back tears until they start rolling off their face, wetting their sleeve. Again, Mom pads into the room and rests a hand on their shoulder. They stand like that for a moment before she pulls Frisk into a hug. They bury their face in her robes, weeping, and she strokes their hair. 

“It is alright, my child.” Her voice is soft as ever. “She was only bluffing. I will keep you safe. I promise.”

They want to say to say they know. They want to say ‘I love you,' but the words won’t come out. Instead, they just hug their mother tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Frisk's birth mother shows up and is a huge bitch. I probably won't continue this story line, at least not here. I think I will take a short hiatus to participate in National Novel Writing month, but I do plan on continuing one-shots here. I hope you enjoy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minor timeskip! Frisk and Monster Kid are both 16 in this chapter. They get up to some antics.

Frisk pulls the scarf tighter against their neck, cursing the cold. They shove their hands into their hoodie pockets and keep walking. Their friend’s house is only a block away. Winter break is only a week away, but for most of the students, it can’t come soon enough. Nobody likes walking to school in the snow.

Rounding the block, they see it now. A regular looking home, nothing making it obvious that monsters live there instead of humans. It’s painted a slightly garish yellow, with even more garish Christmas ornaments cluttering the yard. Monster Kid’s new game better be worth walking in the cold, Frisk thinks. 

They reach the door, taking a moment to stomp the snow off their boots at the welcome mat before they knock. They knock three times before they get a response. 

“Yo, come on in, dude!”

Frisk smiles as they let themself in. It’s been four years since everyone moved to the surface, but Monster Kid hadn’t changed a bit. Well, that’s not entirely true. They like to go by the nickname ‘Ace’ now, but to Frisk, they’ll always be Monster Kid. In class, they simply refer to their friend as ‘MK.’ It’s a good middle-ground, they think.

They’re standing in the doorway, grinning ear to ear as usual. They’ve never stopped wearing striped shirts. Today, it’s a sweater with red stripes against green, decorated with tiny candy canes.

“Hey,” Frisk greets. They shrug off their heavy coat and hang it up.

“Yo, you ready for this shit?” MK asks, already hopping up the stairs to their room. “It’s rated ‘M’,” they gloat.

“Hell yeah. Go ahead and set it up, I’m gonna grab some cups.”

Less than ten minutes later and Frisk is sitting cross-legged aside Monster Kid in front of their TV, red solo cups empty and waiting to be filled.

“Did you know that little ring thing at the bottom is there to mark how much a shot is?” Frisk asks, fishing the silver flask out of their jean pocket. 

“No, but it makes sense,” MK says, getting up to turn on the TV by thumping their chin against the power button on top. “I totally didn’t think you were actually gonna be able to come through.”

“I stole it from one of my uncles,” Frisk says, feeling a small twinge of guilt. “It’s cool though, he’s such a boozer he won’t even miss it.” 

“So you’re basically doing him a favor,” MK says, gently headbutting the game system. The LED changes from red to green.

Frisk laughs a little, unscrewing the lid and pouring out a shot for both of them. The liquor is an amber color, and Frisk is pretty sure it’s some kind of flavored whiskey. It smells like fire and cinnamon. 

 

An hour passes, and now both teens are comfortably buzzed. The flask is empty.

“Holy shit!” Frisk blurts out. They’re gently leaning against MK now, hand reaching out sloppily to pass the controller. “I didn’t know this game had fuckin’ titties in it!”

The human woman on the television smiles seductively, and Frisk notices that MK’s face is slightly orange with blush now.

MK laughs, nearly falling over backwards. They take hold of the controller with their feet and start the next level. “Dude, I told you this game was awesome. They didn’t rate it ‘M’ for nothing.” 

“I’m not complaining I’m just. Who the hell puts sexy stuff in a freakin’ puzzle game?” Frisk takes a hearty swig from their bottled water. The last thing they want is a hangover. 

On screen, the main character’s head is torn off with a glorious splatter of blood, and they both cheer despite being out of lives. 

“I’m so jealous,” the human says, gently bobbing their head in tune to the game-over music. It’s a pretty catchy theme. “Mom would never let me play anything with gore or boobs in it.”

Monster Kid snorts a little. 

“And I’m jealous that you can get alcohol so easily.” 

Frisk leans all the way back, resting their head on the floor and smiling at the ceiling. It’s a good thing the flask didn’t have much whiskey in it, or else they’d probably be drunk right now.

“Sorry about losing our last life. I think I’m done now though, if you are.”

“Oh yeah dude,” Frisk says, clasping their hands together. “Game’s pretty sweet but I’m good for now. Hey, don’t forget to drink water so you don’t feel shitty tomorrow.”

MK giggles, leaning back to join Frisk on the floor. “Don’t worry man, I won’t. I don’t think it affects me as much as it does you anyway.”

They lie in companionable silence for a few moments until the game over music fades away. Frisk groans. 

“It doesn’t loop? Ugh, zero out of ten. Trash.” They both laugh, and with some effort the human pulls themself upwards to turn off the game system and TV. 

Frisk is still feeling warm and slightly giddy from the alcohol, so they wobble over to MK’s bed and throw themself down with a sigh. 

“Your bed is so comfy.”

MK laughs again, but this time there’s a slight nervous edge to it. Frisk raises their eyebrows.

“Something up?”

“Um. No,” they lie. “Can you uh, help me up, though?”

“Yeah, sure. Sorry, I should have done that first.” 

Again, Frisk pulls themself up. They stand over their friend, grinning.

“What would you do without me?” They tease, kneeling down and gently pulling Monster Kid up by the sides.

MK just smiles, but it’s distant, as if they’re lost in thought.

Frisk suddenly feels bad about something, but they can’t place the exact emotion. 

“Aw, I didn’t mean it like that.” Frisk’s hands are still on MK, and they’re staring at each other like they’re meeting for the first time.

“I know,” they say.

And then they lean in, and before Frisk has time to think their lips are pressed against their friend’s, the taste of cheap cinnamon whiskey coming back full force. Time seems to slow down, and all Frisk can think of is how fast their heart is beating and how long they must have secretly waited for this to happen.

And then there’s the sound of the dining room door opening, slamming shut, and the spell is broken. The kiss breaks, MK’s eyes are wide, and Frisk can feel that theirs are too. They haven’t been keeping track of the time, they both realize at once.

“Hey kiddo, you done with your homework today?” One of their parents calls out. Frisk can’t tell which one it is - to them they both sound alike. It doesn’t matter, though. Their hangout is over, either way.

“Y-yeah! Frisk came over to help me with it so we got it done really fast!” It’s all lies, but it’s not like MK’s parents ever bother to actually check.

“That’s good,” the voice from the dining room says. “I’m going to start dinner. Tell your little friend they can stay if they want.” 

Frisk realizes that they haven’t let go of MK yet. They tear their hands off of their sides and shove them back into the hoodie. Their heart still hasn’t slowed down yet.

“Thanks, but my mom will be mad if I don’t get back home soon,” they lie. They lower their voice. “Text me later, okay?”

MK nods, still looking stressed. Their entire face is orange now. 

Frisk smiles despite themself and plants a quick kiss on their friend’s cheek before they leave. “I’m not mad,” they whisper.

MK just nods.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the warnings for self harm again. This is just a vent piece starring Frisk, basically. I'm still leaving this thing on hiatus.

Frisk frowned to no one in particular as they held the razor blade in their trembling hand. They held their other hand, made into a loose fist, wrist up. They hadn’t done this in a while.

It had been so long, all of the old scars had faded to little pinkish white lines.They would probably always be there to some extent, but they had finally been able to wear short sleeved shirts without getting stared at.

If they went through with this again, it would be another round of bandaids and long sleeves and constant vigilance. It made them tired just to remember it. But…

Nothing was exactly wrong, really. Nothing bad had happened to anyone, no one was hurt or dead or sick. But it was back again. They didn’t know what “it” was, exactly, but it had come back recently, and in full force.

It made them want to spend all day sleeping, and it kept them up at night, it made them either eat too little or too much, and worst of all it made them  _ numb _ . It made them feel like they were sleepwalking through their very finite life, not a person but a husk where one should be.

They studied the blade in their hand. They looked at the lines on their wrist. The last time they had done this, they had simply been too mentally exhausted to hide it. They had cleaned and bandaged the wound, but they didn’t bother covering it up with a sweater. It had been in summer, so there was nowhere they needed to be, and their adoptive mother would have seen past their excuses for wearing long sleeves anyway.

Toriel had noticed the bandage, and Frisk had caught the sad look in her eyes. But she didn’t say anything about it. They didn’t know how to feel about that.

With an irritated sigh, they put the blade back into the little tin, originally for mints, that they kept their supplies in. They always felt good in the moment, but after they were done, there was nothing but shame and regret left, aided by the dull sting of pain.

They had thrown away their kit, once, hoping to remove temptation. They had ended up hurting themself with a less than clean implement. They touched the scar it made: a little raised oblong bump on their wrist. It hadn’t healed as neatly as the others, and it served as a permanent reminder.

They put their kit away, back in its hiding place, under the bed. It was a pretty obvious place, but then again, their fondness of the habit was obvious to anyone just by looking at them.

They paced about their small bedroom, feeling like a restless zoo animal. After a few minutes they stopped, feeling stupid.

“Mom? I’m bored,” they announced, exiting their room.

Toriel laughed from the other room. “Do not worry, Frisk. There is plenty of yard work that needs to be done.”

“Okay.”

They still didn’t feel any better, but they went outside and started pulling weeds and removing brush anyway. It wasn’t fun, really, but it distracted them.

Sometimes that was the best they could hope for.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> self harm talk again woohoo

"Are you sure it's okay...?"  
  
Monster kid (Ace, now they remind themself for at least the hundredth time,) is eyeing their wound with apprehension. They're leaning against Frisk, a pillar of body heat and comfort amidst the human's raging inner storm.  
  
They nod, unable to form words for the first time in years now. They'd been doing so well, too.  
  
"Frisk..."  
  
They lift their head to look Ace in the eyes.  
  
"You know you're, like, my whole world, right?" There's a bead of moisture clinging to the corner of their eye.  
  
Frisk can't talk, so they wrap their non-injured arm around the monster and nuzzle their face into their neck. Their other arm rests in their lap, steadily staining their second favorite outfit a deep maroon.  
  
They hate this. They don't even have a reason for feeling like this, for hating their own vessel and desperately wanting to escape.  
  
Maybe that's just part of being Frisk.  
  
They sit there together for what feels like at least an hour, silently contemplating their existence, until Ace gently headbutts them. "C'mon, we've been sitting on the floor long enough. Let's get that wound taken care of."  
  
Frisk grunts in response, trying to force words out of their mouth and failing miserably. Their partner is right, of course. The wound needs to be cleaned and bandaged. They can't find the strength to stand.  
  
Ace headbutts them again. "C'mon, Frisk..."  
  
Not having arms can be quite the disadvantage, Frisk thinks dully.  
  
"Don't make me call your uncle," they threaten.  
  
"I-" _I don't care,_ they want to say. The rest of the words don't come. They try, they really do, but the rest of the words just won't come.

They don't move. A moment passes.

Ace stands, trying and failing to bite back a disappointed sigh.

Frisk closes their eyes.

When they wake, it's daytime, and they've been moved to their bed, and their arm is ridiculously over-bandaged in the way that only uncle Papyrus does. How many times have they explained that they know how to take care of the wounds on their own? "I know how deep I can go without actually hurting myself," they'd said.

"It's called self _harm_ for a reason, kiddo," Sans had responded dryly.

They explained again that they knew what they were doing, but it fell on deaf ears. Nothing they could say would stop either of their uncles - their entire adopted family, really - from freaking out and going overboard.

Frisk appreciated the sentiment, but at some point, it was incredibly tiresome.

A sharp pain pulses through their wrist, making them grit their teeth. Maybe they did go too deep, this time.

If they focus, they can just make out the sound of their uncle's voice downstairs. He's whispering, which for him means talking at about a regular conversation level.

"-get past it, when they've got a strong and cool monster like you taking-!"

They sigh, despite nobody being around to share in their annoyance. They don't need to be taken care of. They close their eyes and drift back to sleep.


End file.
